


Magari

by FalleNess, Gwyllt



Series: Enemies with benefits [5]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Lovers, Father-Son Dynamics, Gen, Implied Slash, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Out of Character, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyllt/pseuds/Gwyllt
Summary: “Magari” (Ital., no direct translation) — perhaps; maybe; a wish or desire. Also used to describe something you wish were true or happened.
Relationships: Donald Ressler & Raymond Reddington, Donald Ressler/Raymond Reddington, Raymond Reddington & Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler
Series: Enemies with benefits [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1419496
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Magari

**Author's Note:**

> •  
> The wisps of scattered ideas I need to set free. I may revisit and expand them into a bigger piece of writing at some point. Or not.  
> \- Each chapter is a different headcanon/idea/scene.  
> \- Ressler and Red share the same eye color—green.  
> \- For me, Ressler will always be a 'furtive ginger', not blond.  
> \- I'm split regarding whether it's slash or father-son dynamics, that's why I put both Gen and Slash.  
> \- Please, no "father-in-law" and "son-in-law" BS, thanks.  
> \- I consider my Red and Ress in character AF within this universe(s), but to the show they're not, hence the OOC tag.  
> //  
> Many thanks to Gwyllt for his priceless input on logics and characterization!<3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU where Donald flies to Macau—the Asian Las Vegas—to find Reddington who suddenly has gone off the radar.
> 
> As Ressler tracks him down to one of the biggest casinos on the island, The Venetian, things get complicated: Reddington’s now a part of the prize pool at one of the high-stakes games.

...Red sits at the center of a poker table, his wrists chained to the surface. Despite the unfavorable circumstances—as far as he's concerned, a temporary inconvenience—he is glowing like a polished chip, smirk clung to his face.

He glances around, searching for familiar faces. Men, confined in tuxes, cufflinks glistening under the ceiling lamps. An assortment of women's attires, each teasing a _décolleté,_ more ample than the other _._ Gems on necklaces, magnified in the champagne glasses.

Pretentious disguise.

The guests—delinquents, criminals, crooks of all sorts—are clustered around the table, all eyes on him:

the _Raymond “Red” Reddington_ himself, flesh and bone.

“How's your wife, Jamal? Filed for divorce, I hope?”

Two security guards rush to the table, and, after fruitless attempts to reason with the man, escort him out.

The floorman, a golden griffin embroidered on his jacket's sleeve, approaches the croupier, leans over, and whispers something in his ear.

Red doesn't need to hear the words to know what he says: their table needs an eighth player. Vetted by whoever is behind the curtain for tonight’s game.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay...”

The croupier, wearing an apologizing smile, shuffles the deck of cards, occasionally asking someone to pick a card and memorize it. A trick as old as the hills, yet almost everyone falls for it.

Red accepts his _Martini_ cocktail from a waitress—his chain is loosened just enough for that—and takes a sip. A burst of citrus hits his nose; the liquid permeates his palate, swirling on the tongue between pure coldness and floral sweetness, slight bitterness imprinted at the tip.

Savoring the taste, he contemplates.

Death threats have already become a part of his routine—almost like a steaming cup of _Hacienda La Esmeralda,_ and a _pain au chocolat_ in the morning.

However, now is different. Someone on his team has been compromised—a kidnapping like this isn't planned overnight. Surely, Dembe must have figured it out already. If he knows, the cavalry is on their way...

“Mister Reddington, fancy to pick a card?” the croupier asks him, a polite smile on his face.

“I'll pass, thank you.”

Red finishes his Martini, watching the floorman approach the table. He gives a small bell near the croupier a tap and announces:

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. We're delighted to inform you we're all set. Our new player is Ronald Powell...”

Indifferent to whoever is about to join the table, Red takes out a toothpick from his cocktail glass and sucks off a green olive.

“Evening, gentlemen.”

To his utter disbelief bordering with disappointment, Red recognizes the FBI's one and only, Special Agent Donald Ressler.

At least, he's made an effort to blend into the environment; instead of the usual off-the-rack nightmare—a black tailored two-piece suit contrasting with his ginger mane, this time messy, not gelled.

 _Dembe went to the feds? Could he, really...? Unless..._ If—and that's a big if—by some wondrous coincidence, the FBI has located him first, it'd be foolish to refuse considering the circumstances.

“Red,” Ressler grins at him, taking an empty seat.

The words halt on his tongue—Ressler sits way too far to exchange something meaningful than a courteous greeting.

“Glad you could make it, _Ronald._ The flight must have cost you a fortune.” Ressler holds his gaze for a moment, his face acquiring a delicious “Don't-you-dare” expression, and Red takes another Martini off the waitress's tray. “Don't look so glum, enjoy the show while it lasts,” he salutes him with a drink.

As Ressler makes himself comfortable at the table, the agent's facial expression—an unparalleled example of a poker face—seals his decision.


End file.
